She swallowed very carefully, looking slightly gray.
'You can back out now but not later. Once you've paid your deposit, it can't be refunded. And once the ceremony begins, to break the circle is very dangerous.'
She looked down, thinking. I liked that. Most who agreed right away were afraid later. The brave ones took time to answer. 'Yes.' She sounded very convinced. 'To make peace with Arthur, I can do it.'
'Good for you. How is tonight?'
'About midnight,' she added hopefully.
I smiled. Everyone thought midnight was the perfect time for raising the dead. All that was required was darkness. Some people did put a great deal of stock in certain phases of the moon, but I had never found it necessary. 'No, how about nine o'clock?'
'Nine?'
'If that will be all right. I have two other appointments tonight, and nine was left open.'
She smiled. 'That will be fine.' Her hand shook as she signed the check for half the fee, the other half to be delivered after the raising.
We shook hands, and she said, 'Call me Carla.'
'I'm Anita.'
'I'll see you at nine tonight at Wellington Cemetery.'
I continued for her, 'Between two large trees and across from the only hill.'
'Yes, thank you.' She flashed a watery smile and was gone.
I buzzed our receptionist area. 'Mary, I'm booked up for this week and won't be seeing any more clients, until at least next Tuesday.'
'I'll see to it, Anita.'
I leaned back in my chair and soaked up the silence. Three animations a night was my limit. Tonight they were all routine, or almost. I was bringing back my first research scientist. His three colleagues couldn't figure out his notes, and their deadline, or rather grant, was running close. So dear Dr. Richard Norris was coming back from the dead to help them out. They were scheduled for midnight.
At three this next morning I would meet the widowed Mrs. Stiener. She wanted her husband to clear up some nasty details with his will.
Being an animator meant very little nightlife, no pun intended. Afternoons were spent interviewing clients and evenings raising the dead. Though we few were very popular at a certain kind of party—the sort where the host likes to brag about how many celebrities he knows, or worse yet, the kind who simply want to stare. I don't like being on display and refuse to go to parties unless forced. Our boss likes to keep us in the public eye to dispel rumors that we are witches or hobgoblins.
It's pretty pitiful at parties. All the animators huddled, talking shop like a bunch of doctors. But doctors don't get called
Tonight there was no party to worry over, just work. Work was power, magic, a strange dark impulse to raise more than what you were paid for. Tonight would be cloudless, moonlit, and starred; I could feel it. We were different, drawn to the night, unafraid of death and its many forms, because we had a sympathy for it.
Tonight I would raise the dead.
Wellington Cemetery was new. All the tombstones were nearly the same size, square or rectangle, and set off into the night in near-perfect rows. Young trees and perfectly clipped evergreen shrubs lined the gravel driveway. The moon rode strong and high, bathing the scene clearly, if mysteriously, in silver and black. A handful of huge trees dotted the grounds. They looked out of place among all this newness. As Carla had said, only two of them grew close together.
The drive spilled into the open and encircled the hill. The mound of grass-covered earth was obviously man- made, so round, short, and domed. Three other drives centered on it. A short way down the west drive stood two large trees. As my car crunched over gravel, I could see someone dressed in white. A flare of orange was a match, and the reddish pinpoint of a cigarette sprang to life.
I stopped the car, blocking the drive, but few people on honest business visit cemeteries at night. Carla had beaten me here, very unusual. Most clients want to spend as little time as possible near the grave after dark. I walked over to her before unloading equipment.
There was a litter of burned-out cigarettes like stubby white bugs about her feet. She must have been here in the dark for hours waiting to raise a zombie. She either was punishing herself or enjoyed the idea. There was no way of knowing which.
Her dress, shoes, even hose, were white. Earrings of silver flashed in the moonlight as she turned to me. She was leaning against one of the trees, and its black trunk emphasized her whiteness. She only turned her head as I came up to her.
Her eyes looked silver-gray in the light. I couldn't decipher the look on her face. It wasn't grief.
'It's a beautiful night, isn't it?'
I agreed that it was.
'Carla, are you all right?' She stared at me terribly calm. 'I'm feeling much better than I did this afternoon.'
'I'm very glad to hear that. Did you remember to bring his clothes and a memento?'
She motioned to a dark bundle by the tree.
'Good, I'll unload the car.' She didn't offer to help, which was not unusual. Most of the time it was fear that prevented it. I realized my Omega was the only car in sight.
I called softly, but sound carries on summer nights. 'How did you get here? I don't see a car.'
'I hired a cab, it's waiting at the gate.'
A cab. I would love to have seen the driver's face when he dropped her off at the cemetery gates. The three black chickens clucked from their cage in the backseat. They didn't have to be black, but it was the only color I could get for tonight. I was beginning to think our poultry supplier had a sense of humor.
Arthur Fiske was only recently dead, so from the box in the trunk I took only a jar of homemade ointment and a machete. The ointment was pale off-white with flecks of greenish light in it. The glowing flecks were graveyard mold. You wouldn't find it in this cemetery. It only grew in graveyards that had stood for at least a hundred years. The ointment also contained the obligatory spider webs and other noisome things, plus herbs and spices to hide the smell and aid the magic. If it was magic.
I smeared the tombstone with it and called Carla over. 'It's your turn now, Carla.' She stubbed out her cigarette and came to stand before me. I smeared her face and hands and told her, 'You stand just behind the tombstone throughout the raising.'
She took her place without a word while I placed ointment on myself. The pine scent of rosemary for memory, cinnamon and cloves for preservation, sage for wisdom, and lemon thyme to bind it all together seemed to soak through the skin itself.
I picked the largest chicken and tucked it under my arm. Carla stood where I had left her, staring down at the grave. There was an art to beheading a chicken with only two hands.
I stood at the foot of the grave to kill the chicken. Its first artery blood splashed onto the grave. It splattered over the fading chrysanthemums, roses, and carnations. A spire of white gladioli turned dark. I walked a circle sprinkling blood as I went, tracing a circle of steel with a bloody machete. Carla shut her eyes as the blood rained upon her.
I smeared blood on myself and placed the still-twitching body upon the flower mound. Then I stood once again at the foot of the grave. We were cut off now inside the blood circle, alone with the night, and our thoughts. Carla's eyes flashed white at me as I began the chant.
'Hear me, Arthur Fiske. I call you from the grave. By blood, magic, and steel, I call you. Arise, Arthur, come to us, come to me, Arthur Fiske.' Carla joined me as she was supposed to. 'Come to us, Arthur, come to us, Arthur. Arthur, arise.' We called his name in ever-rising voices.
The flowers shuddered. The mound heaved upward, and the chicken slid to the side. A hand clawed free, ghostly pale. A second hand and Carla's voice failed her. She began moving round the gravestone to kneel to the left of the heaving mound. There was such wonder, even awe, in her face, as I called Arthur Fiske from the grave.
